The Distant Joke

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2026-08-23 08:51:27 -

The Distant Joke

The letter lay on the table, the paper yellowed and soft at the edges, smelling faintly of damp wool and old ink. I picked it up, my fingers trembling not from cold but from the weight of the words inside. It was from the Magistrate. It ordered me to escort a prisoner. The name was Silas. I am Elias Thorne. I am forty-two years old. I have worn the constable’s coat for twenty years in Oakhaven,...

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